


Caledonian Road

by omen1x2



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, BAMF!John, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugs, M/M, Original Character(s), Physical Abuse, Prison, Prison Sex, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 09:05:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omen1x2/pseuds/omen1x2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John goes to prison for burglary, and meets a fascinating, broken genius. He wants nothing more than to just keep to himself for the entirety of his sentence, but something about this man gets under his skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Like all fanfic writers, I twist reality to please me. Brit-picked by my very dear friend kdelioncourt. Any remaining issues are entirely my fault and not hers.

Harry was still yelling at him. He’d tuned her out half an hour ago, and she still hadn’t let up in the slightest.

He stared down at his hands, rough and chapped, slightly stubby fingers, dirt under his nails. He really needed to have a bath. The cuffs at his wrists weren’t helping either, reddening and over-sensitising his skin.

Tiring of that, he instead focused on the table underneath his hands. Nice wood, no lacquer. One of the knots swirled in a way that made him think of a top he had loved as a child. It had been green and red, and Harry had broken it.

Thinking of Harry made him tune in to her rants again. “You’re just being stubborn and selfish! I can’t understand why you don’t realise that I just want to _help_ you! You never accept help from anyone; I don’t know why I even try-”

This whole thing was her fault anyway, and she knew it. She just preferred to be angry with him instead of herself, and John was providing her with an excellent excuse.

The lawyer John had refused tried to interrupt again. “Ms. Watson, I really don’t think I will be any help at all if your brother doesn’t-”

“Oh, you’re going to help him, whether he likes it or not! This is just him being a stubborn arse, and I won’t have it!”

John could have said any number of things. He could have said “You’re the one that made me do it to begin with,” or “Perhaps I should turn you in to get a reduced sentence?” or even, “How much do you think Clara would like to hear the truth of what happened?” After all, that was the real reason why Harry was so insistent on John taking her lawyer. She didn’t want Clara finding out about those photographs, and a trial would almost undoubtedly make them public.

Instead, he said, “Just shut up, Harry. I’ll do whatever the bloody hell you want if you’ll just shut your bloody mouth first.”

He ignored the self-satisfied gleam in her eye and went back to staring down at that whorl of a knot.

 

Two years. Two bloody years for something he hadn’t even wanted to do in the first place. It didn’t make him feel any less angry that he might have got even less, if he’d mentioned the extenuating circumstances, but he wouldn’t do that to Harry. Even after all this, he still wouldn’t ruin his sister’s life as well as his own.

And in all honesty, he was just thankful that they had never found his gun. 

“Home sweet home,” John muttered to himself as he saw the gates of Pentonville loom through the window.

 

John went through the changing of his clothes and his cleaning in a blank daze. Some part of him knew that the guard was speaking to him, but no sooner had his ears heard the words than they slipped away. Instead, he kept focusing on the oddest things, like the mould in the corner, and the rat feces near the window.

 _Someone really ought to clean_ , he thought vaguely. _These old buildings need to be taken better care of._

But then, who would care about the upkeep of a prison?

When the guard gave him a blanket and waved him towards a door, John obeyed.

He’d been in the army. He knew that sometimes the best way was to just keep your head down and obey orders.

 

He was in luck, the guard had said. His cellmate was currently finishing another round of detox in the F Wing, and wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow.

 _Lucky_ , John thought as he placed his blanket on one of the bunks.

He looked around the cell, at the two beds and the toilet.

 _Lucky,_ he thought again.

 

Dinner was uneventful. He knew some of them were watching him, while he queued for his food and when he sat to eat. He didn’t make eye contact with any of them, never looked up from his tray. John only knew they were looking at all from the way the hair stood on the back of his neck, and the way his spine tingled with the suppressed animosity.

Still, he knew it was like working with wild animals. Only make eye contact if you plan on engaging.

He knew it wouldn’t work for long; at some point, one or several of them would engage anyway. But he would not go out of his way to exacerbate them.

The food was vaguely reminiscent of an even lower grade of army rations. He frowned as he realised he’d been playing with his food like a child. He immediately began to eat and refused to let himself resort to any more signs of discomfort.

 

He hadn’t moved for hours. He just lay back and let his eyes trace the cracks over his bunk. If he didn’t look away, he could almost believe he was back in Afghanistan. He pretended the air was acrid and hot, the smell of sun and sweat everywhere, the sand and dust permeating every bodily crevice and finding its way into every piece of food or clothing.

John’s fingers twitched, but he didn’t let himself touch his shoulder. He wasn’t wounded. He was still in Afghanistan, where life made sense and he hadn’t yet fucked up his own past redemption. Before Harry had-

No, no, he’d lost it.

John frowned and almost managed to bring it back, when the door to his cell opened with a deafening clang.

He didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t stop himself. He pushed himself up so that his back was against the wall as he waited.

Someone obscenely tall, pale skin and dark hair stepped inside and the door crashed shut again behind him.

This, then, was his cellmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn’t ever planned on writing any Sherlock fic, because there’s just so many good ones out there already. However, every prison fic I’d seen so far seemed to be about Sherlock being this highly respected guy in prison, and ends up taking John under his wing. Perhaps in some situations, this might even be possible. The thing that bothered me about it, though, is that I really can’t imagine Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock being able to keep from offending prison convicts (and especially not for an extended period, over months or even years), because he truly never understands that things he says may be hurtful, and so I always thought it much more likely that John were the one offering protection. And I’m not trying to say anything negative about such fics, because I’ve read some really good ones.
> 
> Also, I tried to put in as much research as possible in the British sentencing system for the crimes that will be mentioned in this, as well as the British prison system (specifically Her Majesty’s Pentonville Prison, where this story takes place) . If there are any inaccuracies, I apologize in advance.


	2. Chapter 2

John Watson took in the sight of his new cellmate. The man refused to move from his position just inside the cell, so it was easy. The dark hair was lank and stiff with grease and dirt. Bruises showed stark against the pale skin, scattered here and there as though aiming for maximum pain with minimal contact. Only one bruise marred his face – the dark of his cheekbone made the understated brilliance of his eyes even more apparent.

This… was not the cellmate John had expected.

“Hello,” John said, momentarily surprised out of his apathy.

The man just stood there, eyes darting over him as if seeing everything and nothing all at once. It made John feel oddly exposed.

He found, much to his surprise, that he didn’t mind.

“You’re a war veteran recently invalided home only to find yourself arrested for a minor crime that still resulted in incarceration. Clearly a strong moral principle, and so the crime in question was in self-defence, or, more likely, in the defence of someone else. You weren’t given a lean sentence, so you didn’t take any deals, or if you did, you didn’t take the best one open to you. Either punishing yourself or protecting someone else, either are equally possible, if not both. Unmarried, obviously, and no close friends or family.”

John gaped. “That was… bloody hell. How-?”

But for some reason, at his words, the man seemed to close in on himself. His eyes shuttered and his back hunched as he carefully made his way toward his own bunk without moving too close to John’s despite the small space.

John tried again. “I’m John Watson.”

His cellmate made no move to show he’d heard.

John stayed up the rest of the night, but the other man never said another word.

He wondered where the man’s bruises had come from.

 _It’s prison, you idiot,_ he reminded himself. _Don’t get involved._

 

Someone was talking to him for a full five minutes the next morning in the caf before the words really penetrated in John’s mind. And even so, the man had nothing to say that interested John in the slightest.

He found himself scanning the canteen, ( _cafeteria_ , he reminded himself; he wasn’t on base anymore) noting the doors, no windows, and one tall cellmate with pale skin and bruises being eyed by three men in a way that was decidedly unfriendly.

“… So obviously if you want a go at the telly you better be ready to pay for it, is all I’m saying. Say, have you got any cash? I haven’t got to watch my favorite program in weeks, and I’m just about ready to punch myself with boredom.”

“No use punching yourself,” John muttered, distracted. “Might as well punch someone else and be useful about it.” He didn’t wait for an answer as he stood and walked across the cafeteria, leaving his food behind him.

 _Horrible rations, anyway,_ John didn’t even realise he’d thought as he found himself sitting across from his cellmate.

The man didn’t look up, but John had the feeling that he was fully aware, not only of John’s presence, but of every glance in his direction.

“So are you ever going to tell me your name?”

No response whatsoever. It was somewhat like talking to Harry’s dolls when he’d been a boy.

“Usually when someone tells you their name, it’s polite to give them your own in return.”

The head of dark hair tilted, as if questioning, but still no answer.

“Well, go on, then. You’ve obviously got a question. Let’s have it.”

Grey eyes flicked around the large room before resting on John with the intensity of a laser. “Odd practice, isn’t it? As if you’re exchanging names the way you exchange presents at Christmas.”

John blinked, and then laughed. Loud and hard and it was as much the surprise of it as anything else that made it so difficult for him to stop. Everyone around them stared. John didn’t care, because he could see his cellmate’s shoulders shaking, as if silently laughing himself.

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man said quietly. “Although I don’t think it’s much of a gift.”

“Sherlock,” John said eagerly. “So, last night. How did you-”

“Why, Holmes, I had no idea you had a new boyfriend.” The same three men John had noticed eyeing Sherlock earlier stood over them. The largest had a tattoo on the side of his neck, head shaved, and a nose that had clearly been broken before, and was the one that had spoken. “You should have introduced us. We don’t mind sharing.”

The two others gave fake chuckles. None of them were looking at John.

Sherlock’s momentary openness had shut off as quickly as a switch being thrown.

 _Don’t get involved,_ John reminded himself.

“Lucky for us, he doesn’t seem much like he’d mind sharing either.” The look Tattoo gave John was contemptuous, taking in his small size.

Sherlock said nothing. His hands were folded in his lap, knuckles as white as his face.

_Don’t get involved._

“Have you told him any of your little fortunes yet? Or have we finally managed to fuck the psychic right out of you?”

Sherlock’s shoulders twitched. “Not-”

Tattoo grabbed Sherlock by the hair and pulled his head back, hissing, “What was that, bitch? You want to say something about how everything you say isn’t as much bollocks as anything some old whore says on the street?”

For a brief moment, Sherlock’s eyes met John’s.

_Don’t get involved._

Suddenly, the tall, enigmatic man seemed to find some source of inner strength. He straightened his back, somehow looking as though that fist in his hair was nothing more than decoration as he said, “You fucked Hall this morning in your cell, most likely while the security guard was only a few cells down. But then, we both know you enjoy nearly being caught, don’t we? Hall wasn’t interested, but your closeted homosexuality makes you feel as if a place like this can leave you many possibilities, as long as you’re the ‘biggest and the strongest.’ Of course, you are neither, but in a Category B prison, no one is willing to challenge you if they have no reason, which you know full well. This is why you only rape the ones you believe will not fight back.”

Tattoo’s face had grown redder and redder over the course of Sherlock’s spiel until he appeared almost purple.

“Did you-” Tattoo’s hand pulled Sherlock’s head back further, until he was almost yanked off the bench entirely. “-just call me-” He lowered his head to Sherlock’s ear. “-a _fag_?!” His teeth ripped into Sherlock’s ear.

John saw blood on Tattoo’s lips and teeth as he pulled away. He felt sick.

Sherlock’s hands twitched. He opened his mouth. Shut it. Opened it again.

_Don’t get involved._

“Yes,” Sherlock said, defiant. His fingers were shaking, and something in his face seemed to say that he would die before he gave in.

Something in Tattoo’s said he’d do it.

No one, not even John, noticed when he stood.

Everyone noticed when he threw his first punch.

 

“You’re an idiot.”

John glared at the man as he did his best to use the wetted end of his blanket to clean his scraped knuckles but didn’t say anything.

“Don’t be like that. You ought to know that getting in a fight in a common area where the guards can catch you can ruin any chances you have of getting out of here early.”

“Says the idiot that decided to fling insults at convicted felons.”

“I most certainly did no such thing.”

“What? But you-”

“I merely said he was gay. He was the one that chose to take it as an insult.”

“But…” John stopped and slowly lowered his blanket. “You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.” Sherlock’s tone seemed to suggest that anything else would be utterly impossible.

“But you knew he’d take it as an insult.”

“Perhaps. Some people seem to find their sexuality threatening.”

“And you knew he would be threatened by it when you said it.”

“It was likely, yes. Everything about his actions has suggested he is a closeted, self-hating homosexual. Including the fact that he’s responded negatively to such comments in the past.”

John considered being exasperated or berating Sherlock because it was clear that the past comments had likely been from the man himself. It was also equally clear that any exasperation or rebuke on John’s part would be ignored.

“There’s nothing wrong with being gay,” John said absently as he took his blanket up again, thinking that it was somewhat of a pity that he didn’t have any gauze for his knuckles.

“Thank you, yes, I’m aware.”

Having just finished cleaning his scrapes, it took John a moment to realise what Sherlock had said, and then swallowed. “Oh. You’re... gay, then? Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course.”

Sherlock’s eyes had never left John since they’d returned to their cell, but they suddenly narrowed and sharpened. “Ah. Of course.” Sherlock pressed his back against the wall, every inch of him tense and waiting. “You expect thanks.”

Confused, John’s tongue flicked out to lick his lips. “Well, yes, I suppose. I did just attack three men for you. A thank you would be nice.”

Moving fluidly to his feet, face a careful mask of sharp-edged nonchalance, Sherlock unzipped his jumpersuit. It dropped to his feet, too baggy to cling to his thin frame unaided, and stepped out of it, each movement too quick for John to react, until he found himself pressed back against his bunk.

John’s voice was strangled, choking as he grasped at Sherlock’s hand on his own zipper. “Wait! What are you doing?” He had a lap full of pale, dark haired stranger and his mind was short circuiting between arousal and confusion.

“You wanted me to thank you, Doctor, so I’m thanking you.”


	3. Chapter 3

John seriously considered hyperventilating. “Do you… often… choose to thank people this way?”

Sherlock frowned. His eyes darted over his face again, assessing. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“Well, hey now, that’s not fair. I just got here two days ago, and it seems to me like you’ve no bloody idea what you’re doing either!”

Giving a noise of disgust, Sherlock threw himself off of the other man and retreated to his side of the cell. “’Thanks,’ John. In prison, this usually means services rendered, whether it be an exchange of privileges, cash, drugs, or sex. You have no interest in drugs, and I have no cash. I could try to have my privileges changed over to you, but I doubt that would be allowed, since they’re set permanently in order to avoid any such exchange. Sexual favours are the only real way for me to express my thanks here.”

“You could just say ‘thank you.’”

The look Sherlock gave him was… odd, and impossible to decipher. “You will learn soon enough how useless words are here.”

John leaned over to grab at Sherlock’s jumpsuit and pretended to ignore Sherlock’s flinch at his sudden movement. “You seem to use them easily enough,” he said casually as he flung the clothing at Sherlock’s head.

“Precisely my point.”

“Well, come here, then.”

After hesitating a moment, Sherlock dropped his clothes to the bed, and stalked, naked, across the cell and onto John’s. “Has anyone ever told you that you give mixed signals? Very interesting. I imagine it has something to do with your untapped, latent homosexuality.”

John rolled his eyes. “I’m not gay.”

“Bisexuality, then.”

“Whatever.” Without addressing the rest of Sherlock’s statement, John reached over and, too tenderly to be clinical, tilted Sherlock’s head to the side to inspect his ear.

“Oh,” Sherlock said softly.

“Do you want me to get your bloody clothes for you again?”

“Please.”

 

“So you don’t wear any pants, then?” John asked as he cleaned Sherlock’s ear.

“No point.”

John didn’t say anything else.

Sherlock didn’t expect him to. He took in the way John’s eyes hardened, and how the man didn’t flinch away from him. For the first time in months, he relaxed.

He relaxed so much he fell asleep.

 

“Has anyone ever told you that you talk in your sleep?” John hadn’t bothered to move to the other bunk, so he noticed the moment Sherlock opened his eyes.

Sherlock made a face and rolled to face the wall. “My brother, when we were kids.”

“You were listing all the elements in order. Do you often dream of chemistry?”

“It’s certainly better than those ridiculous nonsensical things most people are subjected to.”

“It just figures that you disciplined your mind to dream about the periodic table instead.”

“At least it’s useful.”

John laughed and slowly raised himself to a sitting position, gingerly twisting his stiffened shoulder. “The dreams don’t have to be useful. It’s the sleep that matters. Nerve regeneration and all that.”

“And I refuse to let random firings of my cerebral cortex allow my rational brain to make utterly ridiculous observations.”

“You’re ridiculous,” John muttered as he stood.

“Childish,” Sherlock spat back.

“Yes, you are,” John said, grinning.

Sherlock stared at him, and then fluidly moved from lying to standing and stalked over to his bunk. Reaching under the mattress, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit up, refusing to look back at his cell mate.

John tried not to laugh. He knew a pout when he saw one.

 

Sherlock refused to go to breakfast, and John didn’t push it. If nothing else, he thought, he could bring back a bit of his own. He rarely finished everything anyway, and it would serve Sherlock right to get the worst of the bad food.

He was receiving more stares this time, which he’d expected. He just ate through his beans, solid and steady, and waited for the crisis to come.

It didn’t.

Instead, the young man from the previous day sat with him again. John barely remembered him, but that voice was vaguely familiar, so he figured they must have had a conversation at some point.

“So did you get the cash?” the other man asked eagerly. He didn’t even seem to notice John’s blank stare as he continued, “No, probably not. You were probably too busy shagging your new boy toy all night, weren’t you?”

John sighed and pushed his tray away, but made sure to tuck the bread into his jumpsuit. “Look, I’m not-”

“Gay? Neither are most of us in here. But what else do we have to do? The telly is crap, even when you can afford it, and your little boy toy is one of the best of a bad lot. Did you see those cheekbones?”

His fist clenched tightly under the table, John swallowed and asked roughly, “You’ve had him, then?”

“Well, of course. Almost everyone in here has. Deliciously good lay, isn’t he? I hope you’re the type that likes to share.”

“I’m not.” When John pushed himself away from the table, the bench scraped back a few inches, despite the two dozen inmates sitting on it with him.

 

John’s fingers were tapping impatiently at his knee as he stared across at Sherlock.

“Oh, _honestly_ , John,” Sherlock said bitingly when he’d had enough. “If you have something to say, then say it. Or better yet, I’ll say it for you. ‘Sherlock, why do you let them do it?’ Well, John, it certainly beats the alternative.”

John flinched, hearing the echo of the young man’s words in Sherlock’s.

“’The alternative, Sherlock?’” he continued. “’Does that mean you _like_ it?’ Of course not. Disgusting cretins, the lot of them. But when I first arrived, I tried to fight back, and you learn quickly not to. ‘Is that why you never shower?’ Why, yes, John, astute observation. I try to avoid the showers whenever possible. I despise feeling so gritty and oily, but I can honestly say that I rarely got a shower beyond just getting wet while I was there anyway. They rarely feel considerate enough to soap your back while they’re gang raping you. Any more questions?”

Starting to shake his head, John paused. He could feel the bile rising up in his throat, and the attack that Sherlock was trying to make this into. He wouldn’t let him. “So how did you know all that stuff about me when we met?”

He felt a small feeling of victory and something else as he saw Sherlock, for once, stuck for words.

“You even knew I was a doctor,” John added, ignoring that feeling spreading in his chest. “How on earth could you do that?”

Sherlock shook himself like a wet cat, and then leaned back against the wall, eyeing John with interest. “When you were cleaning the scrapes on your hand. It was clear from the knowledgeable way you did it, making sure nerves and tendons were still unharmed, as well as how you managed to bandage it with only a rag.”

“You knew I was military. I could have just been a medic.”

“Very true, but with your age and level of education, I thought doctor was more likely. And you _were_ a medic in the military.”

“How…?”

“Well, honestly, John. How else would you have gotten shot?” He rolled his eyes in response to John’s expression. “The way you move and carry your shoulder implies wound. Recent. Clearly ex-military and recently left, from your mannerisms - you haven’t been back in polite society long enough to acclimatise yourself. The nature of your crime is also obvious from your wound. Shot through the shoulder, from the back. You were either running away or protecting someone. Setting aside how unlikely it is that a man trained as a doctor that chose to be a medic would run from a conflict, the high angle suggests the man was standing over you, with you lying on your front.”

“How could you possibly have known that? You hadn’t seen the wound yet.”

“It’s quite easy to determine location and degree of a wound like a gunshot just by watching a person’s actions.”

“I was _lying down_.”

“And you had your pillow placed under your shoulder and not your head. Lower on your back to keep from aggravating the wound, and leaving your shoulder elevated.” When John didn’t reply, Sherlock continued. “Such a man could possibly have been arrested for illegal proprietorship of a firearm, but you would have likely been sent to a Category A prison as a danger to yourself or others. So, common crime for an entirely uncommon war hero. What on earth kind of crime would he commit? Take in the shoulder wound again. Protective, to the cost of self. In that case, a crime likely to have benefited someone else.” Sherlock ended, dramatic pause in place as if expecting either applause or a blow. John remembered Tattoo’s reaction to Sherlock’s statements in the cafeteria the previous day.

“That… was amazing.”

“Really?” Sherlock probably hadn’t meant for the word to come out in such a breathless rush.

“Absolutely.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“Well, I’m hardly going to bite your ear for it.”

When he saw the minute way Sherlock’s hands relaxed and eyes cleared (he doubted such sharp eyes could ever soften), John made his decision.

“Hey, can I cop a couple fags?” he asked.

Sherlock frowned, but his eyes sharpened. A puzzle. “You don’t smoke.”

“That’s right,” John replied as he held out a hand.

 

John suggested that Sherlock stay behind for dinner as well. As he queued with his tray, he looked around, trying to observe the way Sherlock did, but all he saw was a sea of orange jumpsuits. People. He wondered how Sherlock did it.

 

He ate most of his food and didn’t notice. His eyes kept flicking over each face. He couldn’t find the man he’d spoken to earlier, but that was all right. He’d just find something similar.

Ah, there. Smaller, ratty looking with the shifty eyes, yellow teeth. Perfect.

After disposing of his tray, he made his way over to the man and sat across from him. From the way the man tensed and tried not to stare at him, John figured he’d made the right choice. He’d seen plenty of this type in the military, and he knew exactly how to work with them. He set his hands on the table, one cigarette held carefully between the fingers of each. “I need a favour.”

The man flicked his tongue against his teeth, eyes fixed on John’s hands. “Oh?”

“My cell mate. Sherlock Holmes.”

“What about him?”

“He’s mine. I want you to tell everyone that if they touch him, they’ll have to answer to me.”

Ratty laughed, a high, breathy squeak of air between his teeth. “Why should that stop them?”

“Because unlike every other convict in here, I’ve killed men. Several of them.”

When he flicked his eyes up to meet John’s, Ratty flinched. John smirked. Caught.

“One cigarette now. The second when I know word has spread.” He held up his left hand.

The man reached to take it, then paused. “It won’t stop some of them.”

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmm, BAMF!John makes his first appearance. *fans self* Oh! Sorry, got distracted for a moment. Anyway, interpretation of John’s military history borrowed from [abundantlyqueer’s excellent, detailed meta](http://archiveofourown.org/works/319040) on the subject.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock’s eyes were on him the moment he returned, and for some reason, John wasn’t ready for the man to learn what he’d just done. Perhaps he was afraid of questions, because truly, he had no idea why he was doing this himself. The military doctor in Afghanistan may have protected anyone who needed it, but the prison inmate had no real reason to choose this one broken man out of hundreds to safeguard.

In order to distract himself from Sherlock’s deductions, he grinned and said suddenly, “You never asked if you got anything wrong.”

Blinking, Sherlock shook his head roughly and then narrowed his eyes at John. “Unnecessary. You validated everything.”

“No, _not_ everything. You said I had no close friends or family, so who would I have been protecting?”

“I-” He paused, and then his mouth twisted into a scowl. “Oh, fine. Yes. I suppose.” 

“Hmmm?” John inquired innocently. “You suppose what?”

Sherlock’s scowl deepened into something almost demonic as he mumbled. “I may have misspoken. But I wasn’t _wrong_.”

John chuckled, but decided not to push it. “It was for my sister.”

“Well, your estranged sister, I imagine. Familial ties can be ridiculously binding in the most annoying of ways, and you would have likely been guilted into helping her. So, depending on how one would interpret ‘close,’ I most certainly was _not_ wrong.”

“You are bloody impossible. Do you want to hear this or don’t you?”

“No need. I think I can gather most of the relevant information just from what you have said and what I have deduced. Your sister, likely estranged due to some moral issues that have driven you from her…” His eyes sharpened as they moved from John’s face to his shoes and then his wrists. “Drugs? No, alcohol.”

“How-”

“She clearly thought enough to get you a lawyer, but wasn’t able to consider the idea you might need decent shoes or other paraphernalia in prison. Also, there’s a fleck of vomit on one of your shoelaces, recent enough that it likely occurred either during or just before your incarceration.”

“And goodness knows I couldn’t have binged a bit the night before I committed a crime.”

“Possible, but unlikely. You would have wanted to keep your wits about you and would certainly never have broken into a house drunk. Besides, the angle is all wrong.”

“And of course you somehow deduced that I broke into a house.”

“What other kind of crime could you have possibly done for a loved one? Clearly not a violent one, and drugs are certainly out of the question. Breaking and entering would be the most logical conclusion. Either she lost something of value while on one of her indulgences that you needed to reacquire for her, or she was being blackmailed and you had broken into the blackmailer’s home to steal back the evidence.” John’s eyes narrowed. “Ah, blackmail, then. Most likely scenario then is that she is married and had an extramarital affair which was then photographed or videotaped, and when the blackmailer contacted her for payment, she turned to her ex-military brother and convinced him to try and help her. She clearly couldn’t turn to her husband, as that would inform him of the existence of said material, and she wouldn’t trust her friends with such a delicate problem… What?”

John simply couldn’t hold back his laughter anymore, and it bubbled out of him in the middle of Sherlock’s diatribe, causing Sherlock to pout petulantly at him.

“ _What_ , John? If I got something wrong, do tell me instead of laughing in that idiotic way.”

Shaking his head and trying to control himself, John grinned across the cell at Sherlock. “Let me just tell you the story, instead of trying to deduce it, hmmm?”

“What? Why? Surely I didn’t get _everything_ wrong!” Sherlock looked absolutely scandalised at the very idea.

“No, not exactly, just…” John smothered another giggle at Sherlock’s indignant look. “I’ll just tell it, all right?”

“Fine.” Sherlock threw himself backwards onto his bunk and glared up at the ceiling as if it had done him a personal wrong. “If you absolutely must, then yes, tell me your little story.”

John cleared his throat and began. “Well, um, I was shot in the shoulder in Afghanistan, and by the time they’d decided to pack me off home, I was in a really bad way.”

“Thank you, yes, John,” Sherlock said scathingly. “Please tell me all about things I already know. I’m certain I won’t find it boring at all.”

Continuing on as if there had been no interruption at all, John said pleasantly, “I wasn’t really speaking to anyone but my therapist, and her only because the military required it.”

“Unless you’re about to tell me that the blackmail and crime had to do with _her_ , then I fail to see what this has to do with anything.”

“It has to do with _me_ , Sherlock. Now pay attention and stop interrupting, or else I’m never going to tell you what you got wrong.”

Sherlock transferred his glare from the ceiling to John but didn’t say another word, which John decided to take as a personal victory.

“I was… miserable. Everything was drab and grey and nothing was happening and I had this annoying limp at the time. Had this hideous cane the hospital gave me that I had to take everywhere I went, and that wasn’t a lot of places. So when Harry came to see me… She said it was to give me a phone to keep in touch, but it was really to tell me about her problem and try to get me to help. I didn’t want to, but nothing was _happening_ and there was this part of me that sort of thought that doing something crazy, even crazy and illegal, would sort of… break me out of this grey. So after Harry and I yelled at each other for a bit, I agreed to try and get back the pictures. She told me how to get to the blackmailer’s flat, and that night, I took my cane and my…” He paused and gave Sherlock a long look. Should he? Not even Harry had known. He sucked on his lower lip for a moment, before just shrugging and continuing. It wasn’t as if a convict could pass judgment, and Sherlock had already guessed at the existence of a firearm anyway. “I took my cane and my gun, and went. She said that she remembered the blackmailer’s sitting room as being in the back of the house and there was a large desk there, which she thought probably held the photos. So I jimmied open a back window and climbed in. The whole thing was pretty easy, found the photos, and no one seemed to be home. It wasn’t until I got back home and called Harry to tell her I’d taken care of everything when I realised I’d forgotten my cane.”

“Psychosomatic,” Sherlock muttered, and then swung his eyes to John, as if worried that it would count as an interruption, and then relaxed when John paid him no mind.

“I had just enough time to stash my gun before the police found me. Harry was furious I got caught and elated I got the photos, so she paid for my lawyer and yelled at me the rest of the time. Last time I saw her, she was pissed and ended up getting sick everywhere before the guard let her out.”

Sherlock was quiet, eyes fixed on John, for quite a while before seeming to come back to himself. “As fascinating as that story was, John,” he drawled, “I don’t see where I got anything wrong. I believe you just wanted an excuse to narrate your sordid deeds.”

“You said my sister wanted to keep the blackmail from her husband.”

“Yes, I still don’t see-”

“Harry has a wife.”

Sherlock’s mouth fell open. He shut it. When he opened it again, a soft laugh escaped and he closed his eyes, resting his head back against his pillow. “Yes, I can see where that might be an amusing error.”

“Especially coming from you, nancy boy.”

 

The next morning, John insisted Sherlock come with him to the showers.

“I refuse to sit in that cell for the next two years with you smelling like that.”

Sherlock had bristled and attacked with quite a few words of his own, but John was immoveable. He tried not to notice the way Sherlock’s shoulders seemed to slump imperceptibly, or how the light in his eyes, which had been growing steadily more brilliant as they talked, grew dim. Instead, he nattered on, mind focused on the faces around them and not on his words at all as they joined the queue of inmates being led to the showers. But when they reached the door, he never even paused. The tall, slender man quietly peeled off his jumpsuit, leaving it in the pile to be cleaned, and stepped under a shower head.

John followed him closely, too busy meeting the eyes of some of the prisoners to notice when Sherlock stopped, and found his nose pressed against a pale, smooth back. Cheeks flushing hotly, he took a step backwards and opened his mouth to apologise, but found himself distracted by the narrow torso and how it angled down, dimpling just above his… then Sherlock was glancing over his shoulder and John looked away.

“Soap, John,” Sherlock said quietly, and John’s hands slipped a little as he handed the small bar to his cellmate.

 

Both men had almost managed to successfully complete their showers without incident, and Sherlock, muscles still tensed, kept looking around every few minutes. He had yet to wash his hair, and John imagined it would be quite difficult for him to willingly close his eyes amongst such a group.

John tapped Sherlock’s arm and tilted his head to the side slightly, signaling.

Nodding, Sherlock quickly slipped the soap into his hair and scrubbed, the muscles in his arms and shoulders tense, and John felt momentarily honored that Sherlock trusted him enough in such a short time to watch his back.

And John knew, when an inmate finally worked up his courage to try and make a move, that he wouldn’t betray that kind of trust.

The inmate raised a hand to lay on Sherlock’s lower back, and John grabbed it by the wrist, using the momentum and wet floor to slam the man’s head into a nearby shower knob. 

He may not have known Sherlock Holmes for very long, but he already knew that Sherlock’s trust was a rare thing, and he wouldn’t let anything break it.

 

 

“Really, John,” Sherlock said later, in their cell. “What’s the point of a shower if I’m just going to get blood on my feet?”

“So sorry,” John said without a hint of contrition. “Next time, I’ll aim for a shower that’s further away.”

“Please do. I’d rather not have to smell Jacobson’s blood for the next twenty-four hours. So disgusting. You really ought to wash my feet in apology.”

“Wash your own damn feet.”

“You’re closer to them.”

Sherlock seemed rather surprised when John’s pillow slammed into his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn’t anywhere near as long as I wanted it to be, but I felt so guilty because of how long it’s been since I updated that I wanted to post _something_. I moved from Kansas to Texas at the end of April, and it’s been crazy hectic ever since, and this is the first time I’ve gotten to really sit down and _write_ for quite a while. I’ll try harder to update more regularly once things have settled down, truly!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has commented and liked this work so far. I really appreciate it, and lap up the positive comments like a kitten with world-class cream, complete with purring. ^o^


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock stalked around the cell, a captive tiger railing at his chains or an overgrown bat fluttering nervously.

“It’s been three days.”

John gave a loud, put-upon sigh and set his book in his lap. “Really, Sherlock, I _am_ reading.”

“No, you’re not. You’ve been watching me move. Likely trying to pretend you aren’t as fascinated by my backside as everyone else.”

“What?! No!” John’s cheeks were a brilliant shade of red, and the color was bleeding down his neck. “You’re just _distracting_ , is all! How am I supposed to read in all this commotion?”

Sherlock continued as if John hadn’t spoken. “And truly, John, I already made it fairly clear that you can have sex whenever you like. These ridiculous morals of yours are rather misplaced in prison.”

Staring down at the book he had acquired the previous day in the library and absolutely not seeing it, John wondered how the conversation had taken such an unexpected turn. “Is that what you’re complaining about? That you haven’t had sex in three days? Look, if you’re really that desperate for it that you’d be willing to… to… Well, don’t let me stop you!”

Sherlock’s glance was utterly scathing. John wondered if his skin might blister from the force of it. “John, I’m talking about _them_. Three days since the last skirmish, and nothing. Nothing at all. You’ve upset the order of things, and they _should_ be trying to reestablish the new pecking order, or trying to carry out the best plots their mediocre minds will allow, but nothing. Not in three days.”

John shrugged, stiff and awkward. He and Sherlock had never directly mentioned John’s choice to interfere before, although he had suspected that Sherlock knew. However, it seemed to upset their rather tenuous balance to change that. “Perhaps they just don’t think it’s worth the bother?”

“What, John?” Sherlock drawled. “Really, that is an absolutely horrible way to try to get into anyone’s pants, by suggesting they aren’t worth the bother of effort.” Despite his words, Sherlock seemed amused rather than anything. His eyes were gleaming with suppressed mirth, and his lips twitched slightly.

“Well, as you made it _abundantly_ clear,” John replied, echoing Sherlock’s tone, “You wouldn’t put up much of a fight anyway. Last I checked, you were more than willing to climb into my lap with no clothes on.”

“Are you suggesting something, John?”

“Well, you’re obviously gagging for it,” John gave another exaggerated sigh. “It really is quite difficult to be such a sex magnet. Sadly, I have no interest in you.”

“That is the most absurd lie I’ve ever heard.”

Suddenly, there was a loud clang outside their cell. John jumped and Sherlock didn’t as they both turned to look towards the door.

“Watson, ya’ve gawt a visitor, mate.” The guard fussed with his keys for a moment, frowning, before picking the right one and opening the cell with a triumphant smile.

John groaned. He rarely wanted to see his sister at even the best of times, but now? He’d rather hoped she wouldn’t want anything to do with him while he was in prison, but apparently her guilt had outweighed her revulsion. Biting his lip as he slowly stood, he tentatively asked, “Do you think you might tell her to just come back later? Say I’m in the loo or something.”

“Whatchoo talkin’ about, mate? Ya’ve got yer own, no need to go to th’ bogs. ’Sides, yer visitor’s a bloke.”

“I… see.” John frowned. He _didn’t_ see. Who on earth would visit him other than Harry? Harry’s lawyer? Well, if he somehow managed to wangle a better deal, he’d have none of it. “All right, then. Lead the way, please.”

Sherlock snorted and threw himself onto his bunk. Likely he thought John’s continuous use of etiquette annoying.

 

 _Well. Hmmm. This certainly isn’t my lawyer,_ John thought, freezing in the doorway. Not that the man couldn’t have been a lawyer, because he certainly emitted the aura of loose morals and greasy pleasantry. However, he doubted his sister would be able to afford anything like this. Even with his minimal knowledge of clothing, John could see that everything about this man was expensive, from his watch, to his shoes, to the perfectly fitted silk waistcoat under his also perfectly fitted suit jacket.

“Please, do sit down, Dr. Watson,” the man said with a slight smile.

Back stiff and stride purposeful, John moved across the empty visiting area to sink slowly into the chair. He considered any number of ways to try and politely ask, but decided that there need only be one of them pretending to be pleasant. “Who are you?”

“No one of any real importance to you, unless you want me to be.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, I have it within my means to have your stay here shortened considerably.”

“You do.” John’s voice was flat, covering and conveying emotions that not even he could fully identify. So, a lawyer, then. He was going to have to speak to Harry about her constant interference not being of any real use to him this late.

“Interested?”

“Not even remotely. Look, I don’t know how Harry managed to hire you, but I never wanted a lawyer to begin with, and she already stuck her nose in once where it doesn’t belong. You can tell her that after you leave.” Conversation over, John decided, and he stood.

“I am not a lawyer, Dr. Watson. However, I do have the power, if you so choose, to not only make you a free man within the next twenty-four hours, but also to wipe clean your record entirely.”

“What are you talking about?” John clasped his hands behind his back and stared down at the man, who didn’t seem intimidated in the slightest. “Who are you?”

“Do not worry, Dr. Watson. I am not speaking of anything illegal. I simply have the means to make all this unpleasantness of yours go away.”

“You’d do all this. What, out of the goodness of your heart? Plenty of inmates here, probably several innocent ones. Why me? I’m not innocent.” He paused. “This has nothing to do with me, does it? It’s about Sherlock.” John frowned and licked his lips. “Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Quite astute, doctor.”

“Well, forget it. I don’t know who in here you’re working for, or why they’re more interested in getting at Sherlock than getting out, but no. I’m not going anywhere, no matter how many treats you put in front of me.”

“Really, John, this is quite beneath you.” The man’s breath came out in a short huff, possibly annoyance, possibly relief, possibly he just felt it necessary to breathe for a moment before returning to his impression of a marble statue. “Surely you have better things to do with your time.”

“Than keep a man from getting gang raped every time he sets foot outside his cell? And possibly even in it, depending on who gets it after I were to have left? What kind of world do you live in, to think morals are beneath anyone?”

“So that he can instead be raped specifically by you?”

John punched him in the eye.

The angle was bad, across a table with one standing and the other sitting, but John felt he’d made his point as he turned on his heel and marched out.

 

“I see you’ve met my brother,” Sherlock said as soon as the door crashed shut behind John.

“What?”

“I’d recognise his face marks on a fist anywhere.”

“Your…”

“In fact, I could probably walk down the street and see three people at any given time that have punched him.”

“Your _brother_ …”

“Even if I’ve never seen them before, I’d know they’ve met Mycroft just from the way their knuckles impacted with his face.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s dumbfounded expression. “Really, John, you ought to know at your age when someone’s joking. I’ve never known anyone to actually hit Mycroft before. I’m surprised you’re alive.” His eyes were almost soft despite the smirk in his voice as he continued, “Really, well done.”

 

“That man is about to come speak to you,” Sherlock murmured into John’s ear as they settled at a table with their dinner trays.

John frowned and looked up. Sherlock did not often give him a “head’s up,” so to speak, when anyone tried to approach, so he thought it likely that this particular person might be an immense threat.

Instead, he saw his ratty acquaintance of the other day scurrying across the room, dashing away from groups and perceived threats. Truly, “Ratty” was a perfect name for this individual.

Sherlock’s attention was on him, so John gave him a bland smile. “I was wondering when he might. It’s been quite a while, after all.”

“Well, it’s a big prison,” Sherlock said vaguely, and then stared down at his tray. By this point, John was familiar enough with this behavior to not worry, and only occasionally wondered if Sherlock were somehow able to imbibe his nutrients by looking at them.

He had finished half his beans when the skittish man finally made it to their table and sunk down on the bench next to John. His eyes kept moving, just as they had when John had first found him, but at a much more panicked pace. “It- It’s done,” he said quietly. “Everyone knows. Your fights helped, o’ course, ‘cause nothing moves quicker than rumours here, but I still made sure.”

“Great, thanks,” John said, and reached into his pocket for the other cigarette.

“Not a good idea, you know,” Ratty said nervously. “Some people won’t like it much.”

“Try none of them,” John said, amiably. “But they’ll have to get used to it.” He held the cigarette out, but the man just stared at it for a long moment, before finally meeting John’s eyes. “Be careful, ‘kay? It’s not… I mean…” With one last frantic look around the cafeteria, he grabbed the cigarette and ran.

John turned to look at Sherlock, only to find his cell mate’s eyes already on him. “What do you suppose that was about?” John asked, utterly incredulous.

“In my experience, he’s always like that.”

“I dunno,” John said. He ran his mind over his two conversations with Ratty. “Last time, he was just cautious. Making sure he knew where all the strong people in the room were so he could stay out of their way. This time, though…” He shook his head. Really, this was preposterous. “Never mind. He was probably just upset that he had to talk to so many convicts.” He picked up his slice of bread and bit into it.

He didn’t notice the way Sherlock’s eyes remained on him, narrowed in thought.

 

“Well, well, well, ladies. It really does seem like it might be true.”

“Wha’ does it matteh?” another asked. “Jus’ gang up on the ponce and get rid of the problem!”

“ _Really_ ,” the first voice drawled. “And you feel that this plebeian approach to a rather elegant problem the most fitting?”

“Dun see why not. Shorty’s out o’ the way, and we get free crack again.”

“Yes, I can see now why this would be a good idea for you. It must be so exhausting, not having anyone to rape.”

There was a loud skirmish, and then the sound of something large and wet hitting the floor.

“Thank you. Could you please take the garbage out now, so we can continue this discussion in a civilised manner?”

“Yessir, Mr. Moriarty, sir.”

“Excellent.”

The room slowly emptied, and after a while, a voice permeated the silence.

“Why don’t you just decide on a plan?”

“Well, I will, obviously. But it doesn’t hurt to make them think it’s theirs.”

“Why?”

“So they’ll want to do it, of course. Now shut up and let me think about just what we’re going to do with our dear Johnny.” He inhaled sharply. “These cigarettes really are of vastly superior quality. Be sure to give Anderson my thanks, would you?”

“Before or after I’m done with him?”

“Oh, during.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am _utterly ecstatic_ that I’ve finally gotten to the main plot points (that being Jim, and also Mycroft’s particular participation in the plot). Just about everything in this (Mycroft’s entrance, Jim’s intro) were originally supposed to be in chapter four, but I just couldn’t ever stop being busy enough to get around to them, so I decided to wait until I wrote chapter five before I managed two of the major plot points. And now that I have (and am still running on the giddy high of watching Sherlock on PBS last night), fresh chapter with Jim’s intro! FINALLY!
> 
> On another note, I actually had planned on “Ratty” to just be a general, no-name character, but then I got several people asking if he was actually Anderson. That got me to thinking, and I went, “Hey, YEAH,” and decided to go with it. XD (And no, that's not how I usually write, but I thought it was an interesting idea.)


	6. Chapter 6

_Brilliant desert sun so harsh it reflected off the sand and blinded him. Even with his eyes squinted, he could see very little but dark shapes, blurred around the edges, and the sharp reflection of metal. Assault rifles._

_One dark shape approached. Fingers touched John’s mouth, and then moved down. At the touch of a slender finger to his nipple, John realised he was naked. His rifle was still in his hands, but his uniform, his kit, even his shoes, were all gone._

_The figure fell to its knees in front of John, and pressed a mouth to John’s hip. The lips felt soft and pliant as they moved down to his thigh, and then back up and over to John’s erection. John stared down through the dazzling sunlight. He must be fully erect, he realized. His rifle seemed to have disappeared with his clothes (was it ever really there?), and he placed a hand in the figure’s hair. A soft moan – his or the shape’s? – and then the mouth moved. Tongue tracing under, fingers pressed into curls at the base, soft and then firm. Lips moving over the head like they were meant to be there, devouring him, and John needed more,_ more _, and he tried to thrust, but he couldn’t move. This time, he knew the moan was his own._

_The hand in the figure’s dark curls tightened, and then released, coming away wet. He stared down and through the haze of sunlight, saw red. He pressed his hand back into hair and tried to push him away. His thighs were trembling. He needed this to stop._

_The mouth moved lower, taking him in completely, heat and hunger and couldn’t he feel his own injury? John again tried to pull him away. Placed both hands in the softest curls imaginable, and wanted to pull that mouth away, but instead found himself pulling it closer. He could feel his orgasm building and he didn’t_ want _this, didn’t want to come like this, with blood in his hands and a harsh wound in the other person’s head._

_His hands slid through hair slick with blood and sweat and bits of grey matter._

_The sun was still too bright to see, but those curls…_

_“_ Sherlock… _”_

_Another blinding flash, but not from the sun. John heard screams and there was an explosion to his left. He saw the shrapnel head straight for the man kneeling in front of him, but still the figure refused to pull away. John’s hands again tried to push, but instead pulled the head closer, until a nose pressed against his sternum. Harsh moans from each, and John couldn’t look away from that shrapnel as it flew, so slowly and yet so deadly, straight into the man’s head, scattering curls._

_“_ SHERLOCK! _”_

 

John awoke with a gasp to a painful ache in his balls. Sweat dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes and dirtying his pillow.

“ _Shit_ ,” John muttered, turning his head to whisper his anger and frustration and every residual feeling from that dream into the cotton pillowcase.

“That must have been quite a dream, John.”

And of course he couldn’t have the privacy to deal with such a loaded dream on his own. He had the energy to try and clean himself up, or he had the energy to retort. He pushed himself off the mattress and flung an exhausted glare at his cell mate. With a monumental effort, he managed to get his wrecked body up and staggering over to the sink.

He wet the rag and wiped the sweat from his face first, and then glared down at the erection still straining at his trousers. The idea of wanking off after a dream like that made him feel faintly sick.

“Would you like me to help you with that?” a voice rough and filled with sexual promise murmured into his ear.

John stiffened. He hadn’t even realised that Sherlock had moved. “No, Sherlock.”

“Are you sure about that?” A long, slender hand slid over John’s shoulder, down his chest and stomach to grip him through his trousers. “It looks quite… _painful_.” He squeezed.

John couldn’t help the groan, low and guttural, because he _did_ want this.

But… no.

“No, Sherlock,” John said again, voice firm.

Sherlock sighed against his ear and John shivered at the heated exhale as it touched his oversensitised skin. “Why are you being so stubborn? You help me, I help you. Beneficial for all.” His fingers traced the outline of John’s cock, light and tantalising.

John took a deep breath. He would step away, but his body was trapped between the sink and Sherlock. Instead, he gathered every ounce of command he had and threw it into his voice. “ _No_ , Sherlock.”

The body behind him tensed, and then finally, _finally_ moved away, leaving John to cling to the sink as he made the effort to bring his legs back under control.

 

Sherlock refused to speak to him the next morning. He lay on his bunk, facing the wall, legs tucked to his chest. His narrow shoulders looked oddly vulnerable.

“Don’t you want a spot of brekkie, Sherlock?” John asked when the guard came to unlock their door. He didn’t expect an answer, and he didn’t get one. He sighed. “Really, Sherlock… you don’t need to be like that. Last night was… it had nothing to do with you.” A lie, of course. He almost hoped Sherlock would call him out on it.

But still, silence.

“Do you want me to bring you something back? You’re thin enough as it is; you really shouldn’t be skipping meals all the time.”

No reply.

John glanced back towards the door. They were already starting to queue. He licked his lips and ran a hand through his hair, leaving the short bristles to stand awkwardly. “Listen, Sherlock…” He stepped closer to the bunk until his legs touched the edge. Sherlock was so tense he was almost thrumming with it. “I’m sorry,” John murmured, and leaned down to press a kiss to a sharp cheekbone.

He didn’t wait for Sherlock’s response, if he were to get one at all. John straightened and marched out of the cell to queue for breakfast.

 

“So you’re the new big bad of Pentonville, are you?” a man asked as he slid into the spot across the table.

John sipped lightly at his tea and grimaced. Horrid stuff. It was enough to make anyone go the straight and narrow.

“Well, mate? Are you or aren’t you?”

Glancing up, John realised the man seemed to be talking to him. “Why, is that what people are saying?”

“Took down three men at once, and then another in the shower. So yeah, everyone’s talking.”

“Good for them.”

“Is it true?”

“That I can beat up men? Yes.”

“Would you beat up one for me?”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Someone’s making my life a misery.”

Flicking his gaze over the man, John replied, “You seem healthy enough.”

“Does he have to be hitting me to get you interested?”

“No, but I’m not an idiot either.”

The man stood. “Good to know.”

He left before John could reply.

 

It wasn’t until he was about fifteen feet from his cell when he heard the crash, and the laughter. People were rushing to the bars of their cells to watch the action, and John put on an extra burst of speed, knowing, and yet _hoping_ -

The door to the cell stood open. Four men crowded inside, crowing and throwing taunts. A fifth man crouched on Sherlock’s bunk thrusting, as a sixth man gripped Sherlock’s wrists, holding them to the bunk, hard enough to bruise. Sherlock’s mouth was bleeding with how hard he was biting it, and John just _knew_ the man would sooner die than scream for help or whimper.

None of the men had noticed he had arrived yet. John glanced around once more, then grabbed the closest one by the neck of his jumpsuit and slammed him backwards into the bars of the cell.

Ascertaining that the man had been knocked cold instantly, John moved onto the next. At the sudden noise, number two had started to turn his head ( _clearly supposed to be lookout, but distracted by the…_ show, John thought with a mental growl). John slammed his fist first to the man’s trachea, and then to his nose. He heard the satisfying crunch, and the man crumpled at his feet.

By now, three and four had realised what was happening. One ran past John to the open door ( _incapacitation unnecessary – note face and distinctive features for future reference_ ) while the other grabbed the closest thing at hand as a weapon – John’s library book. He threw it at John in a frantic motion.

John caught it easily, dropped it, and advanced. Even more panicked now, number four threw a right hook. John caught the man’s arm, pivoted on his heel, and, using the momentum, slammed number four into the man holding Sherlock’s wrists.

“Holy _shit_ , you bloody little-” The last one. John could see him pulling out of Sherlock roughly, cock still erect and covered with specks of blood.

Blood. Sun reflected on sand. Explosions.

John’s vision went red.

As the man hurriedly tucked himself back into his jumpsuit, John stalked the remaining steps over and grabbed his wrist, twisting _hard_.

Snap!

 _Not enough_ , John thought, and gripped the man’s head and neck.

“John, don’t.” Sherlock’s voice, rough. Pained. John glanced over, saw Sherlock’s pale thighs, bruises stark against pale skin, and more blood from- John turned back to the convict with a low, animalistic snarl.

“No! No, please!” The man begged, tears and snot mixing on his face. Pathetic. His hand, the one not broken, scrambled at John’s wrist, trying to break his grip.

Another snap, this one much more satisfying, and John let the body fall to the floor.

There was a long pause, and then the last two conscious attackers ran out, grabbing their friends, and slamming the cell door shut behind them.

“Fuck, John,” Sherlock breathed, and tried to sit up. “Now what are we going to do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like a good, ol’ neck snap to get people’s attention. I truly hope that part didn’t squick anyone, but I think that John would do anything to keep Sherlock safe, and it’s just by pure _luck_ that he has a gun in the show and didn’t have to kill the cabbie with his bare hands, and of course he can’t have a gun in prison (unless this is just the worst prison ever). He’d have certainly snapped The Golem’s neck, if The Golem weren’t such a creepy giant, with creepy giant bones.
> 
> And I really am deeply sorry that it took me almost a month to get this chapter out. Class has just about been kicking my _ass_ , and then when I’m not studying, I’m inundating myself with nummy fanfictions that aren’t mine. Hey, it happens! And until chapter seven, enjoy one seriously BAMF!John chapter, like omfg. I cannot believe I wrote this.


	7. Chapter 7

John wondered what it said about each of them that they had their most tender moment together with a corpse barely a foot away. He pressed his fingertips against Sherlock’s temples, gently removing the tension there as he murmured, “You’re aware, of course, that you almost certainly have an STD.”

“I’m hardly an idiot, doctor.” Despite the words, the tone was low, rumbling forth from Sherlock’s chest as John continued to rub Sherlock’s forehead and run his fingers through his hair. “But if you’re worried for yourself, you oughtn’t be. I’ll have you know that I _do_ usually manage to have condoms on me. Even convicts prefer to go without any social diseases than otherwise, so when I pull one out, they’ll use it.”

“Except today.”

“A lapse of judgment on my part. I should have realised they would likely try to make a move when we were apart.”

John’s eyes narrowed, anger flickering across before he managed to suppress the emotion. “None of this is your fault, Sherlock.”

“Noted.”

Sighing, John glanced down the bed at Sherlock’s lower half. “You really ought to have a doctor look at you.”

“I have a doctor.”

“Sherlock…” John glanced towards the door of the cell. The guards still hadn’t arrived, but… “There’s no _time_.”

“Then look at me after. I’m certainly not going anywhere.”

“Maybe not, but I probably am.”

Sherlock’s eyes opened, apparently remembering something. “Oh! Right.” He stiffened, as if to sit up, but then relaxed and pressed his face to John’s abdomen. “Don’t want to move. You get it.”

“Get what?”

“My mobile.”

John just stared down at him. “You have a _phone_? In _prison_?!” John couldn’t help but be worried that the most current trauma had addled Sherlock’s brain. Had he confused the past with the present?

“Yes, of course I do. I wouldn’t have asked for it otherwise. Do try to keep up, John.”

“Okay, fine. Tell me where you placed this highly contraband item, so that I may fetch it for you, O Master of the Universe.”

Sherlock didn’t react at all to the sarcasm. Possibly he really did believe himself master of the universe. “Under the head of the mattress. I hate looking at the thing.”

John stretched slowly, not wanting to disturb the man in his lap, and awkwardly angled himself to reach under the bed. “If you don’t like it, why do you have it?”

“It was forced upon me. I stopped bothering to get rid of them after the fifth replacement.” He held his hand out impatiently. “Well?”

“Hold on a minute, will you?”

“Haven’t got a minute.” Sherlock’s voice was tense and testy, despite the flippant words, and John noticed what Sherlock must have already heard – footsteps. Quite a few of them.

“Fuck… Fucking, fucking – Got it!” John held the mobile aloft in triumph, and then rolled his eyes at himself. Really, as if a single phone call could get him out of this rather spectacular mess.

John handed the phone to Sherlock just as the door crashed open.

 

 _Well, this isn’t so bad,_ John told himself. He paced the small, empty chamber. Eight steps, turn, eight steps, turn. _No snarky cell mate, no having to get into fights every two seconds…_ Eight steps, turn, eight steps, turn. _First real chance to hear myself think that I’ve had in ages._ Eight steps, turn, eight steps, turn.

“And I’m hating every fucking second of it,” John snarled to himself. The mindless, grey tedium that his small cell provided reminded him too much of the world after he’d left the army. He remembered noisy shops and bland food. He remembered a barren bedsit, devoid of personality. He remembered the constant, aching misery of living a suddenly pointless existence.

And yet, remembering those things were better than having to think of what might be happening to Sherlock right at this moment without his protection.

John deflated, his steps faltering, as he realised what he had just done. He may have protected Sherlock for the moment, but it had already been made horrifyingly obvious that any of those men could simply walk into their cell at any time, and without him there…

“ _Fuck_.” John’s voice was strangled as he bent down and braced himself against his new bunk. He choked down the bile rising in his throat as image after image of what could be happening at that exact moment bludgeoned him.

John took a deep breath and straightened. He gave the wall in front of him a long, blank look, and then turned about.

Eight steps, turn.

 

“Watson, ya’ve really gone an’ mucked things up, ’aven’t ya? Ev’ryone’s all arse over tit tryin’ to figure out wot to do wiv ya.” The guard, young and ginger-haired, was vaguely familiar to John, but he was rather more surprised to find that someone had deigned to speak with him at all.

“I’d have thought it’d be pretty obvious what they would do with me.”

“Ya’d think so, right? But the lot of ‘em are wafflin’ on. They’d wanted to send you off to Belmarsh right off, but then some posh bloke comes up an’ throws a spanner in the works. An’ yer mate was sent back to F Wing ag’n, ’parently happens pretty oft’n-”

“What? Sherlock was moved?”

“Yah, mate, for drugs. None o’ the guards ever seem to find his stash, but he’s got one somewhere. He’ll be back event’lly, though. Always is.”

John sucked in a breath. How had he not known this? He seemed to recall his first day, someone telling him he was lucky because his cell mate was in detox, but he’d somehow managed to push it to the back of his mind.

Honestly, what the sacred bloody hell was the man _thinking_?!

“I better sod off, Watson. Stiff upper lip, yeah?”

And before John had a chance to reply, the man was gone.

 

John was really getting rather tired of walking those same eight steps, but the idea of sitting down, or worse, sleeping was so utterly abhorrent that he couldn’t bring himself to stop. The food the ginger guard had brought him had been cleared of everything that could be eaten while ambulatory, and utterly ignored for all other unmanageable substances.

Sherlock was in detox. “Again,” the guard had said. Why? How? Had Sherlock managed to, somehow, sneak in hoards of drugs the same way he had somehow managed to sneak in his mobile? And why had Sherlock abstained in the relatively short period they had been roomed together? Because he _had_ abstained, of this John was certain. There was no way Sherlock could have hidden drug use from him, not as a doctor, and certainly not as a cell mate. Had Sherlock not wanted to share? Or perhaps the drugs were Sherlock’s last resort? There was simply no way John could believe that Sherlock was stupid enough to overdose accidentally. And this _would_ have been an overdose, if he’d been sent to detox this quickly. How quickly? How long had John been in here?

Bile rose in John’s throat at his sheer helplessness. Sherlock was in trouble, _still_ in trouble, because truly, he’d never left it, and John was trapped inside solitary.

He would have punched the wall, except he knew that it would do no good at all. No, he needed to keep in top physical condition if, by some miracle, he could ever be allowed to fix this.

His head rose and he stopped his constant pacing when he heard the door finally opening.

“Watson. Face away from the door and put your hands behind your back.”

Questions would be useless, and obedience could only help him. John turned on his heel, legs spread and head high as he waited for them to cuff him again.

 

“Hello again, Dr. Watson.” Sherlock’s brother gave him a smile as he was shown into the visitation room.

“Oh, bloody hell,” John sighed. “What do you want?”

“To chat, of course. Preferably without any crass displays of barbarism on your part.”

John moved to sit across from the smarmy bastard, back straight. He’d been cuffed from behind this time, so sitting was rather uncomfortable, but John would be damned if he’d show that kind of weakness, Sherlock’s brother or not. “I don’t find it all that barbaric to punch someone that accuses you of raping their friend.”

“’Friend,’ John, really? Aren’t you being a tad too generous?”

“Not in the least. Now what do you want?”

“To help you, of course, just as I offered last time.”

John rolled his eyes. “Look, I don’t know how good you think you are, but if you’ve been paying any sort of attention you’ll have heard I killed a man. Not exactly something as easy to cover up as burglary.”

“Oh, you let me worry about that. Now, do you find yourself rather more amenable to my assistance this time?”

“Same offer as last time?”

“Absolutely. Cleared name, no criminal record, and you could be out of Her Majesty’s prison system by morning.”

“I see. And what about Sherlock?”

The man tilted his head. “What about him?”

“Come off it. You’re the one he called, right? Did he ask you to help me?”

“Quite astute, doctor. Yes, I gave Sherlock his phone. If he were to ever find himself in need, he could always contact me and request aid.”

This made no sense at all. If Sherlock had the capacity to leave at any time, why would he willingly subject himself to constant abuse? “Has he ever called you before?”

“No. You must have made quite an impression on my brother, Dr. Watson. He called me yesterday, said that there had been an incident, and to help you. Not quite in such polite terms, but the intent was still there.” He began to tap his fingers against the table. “I would have almost thought you had coerced him, if I hadn’t known you had already been brought to solitary when he made the call.”

John’s face twitched and he took a deep, calming breath before he replied, “I would not do that to him.”

The noise Sherlock’s brother made was neither affirmation or denial. After another moment, he continued, “So are you willing to accept, Dr. Watson?”

It still seemed too good to be true. John stared down at the table, mind tripping over itself as he tried to understand what was happening. Who _was_ this man, that he had that kind of power? And… “What about Sherlock?”

“What about him?” Same answer. The man was a brick wall.

“Well, you can apparently let any one of the people in here out if you want to. Why haven’t you done it for your own brother?”

“Did Sherlock tell you that?”

“Yes. Was he lying?”

“You know very well he was not, doctor.” The man shifted back in his seat. “My brother and I have what you might call a… difficult… relationship. He knows very well that I will help him if and when he sees fit to ask. He does not, however, choose to ask.”

This was too much. John’s breath came harder, and the fists behind his back clenched. “Do you mean to say that you… you bloody _bastard_ … let Sherlock get raped every single fucking day and you won’t do anything about it because of some sort of sodding _power play_?!”

“Really, John, you should know by now that my brother has a tendency towards hyperbole.”

John’s chair screeched. “ _I saw it fucking happen, you bloody minded prick_!” The guard to John’s left moved forward and shoved him back into the chair, but didn’t move away, his hand hot and infuriating on John’s shoulder.

The elder Holmes, at the least, looked actually pale with shock. “I… see.” He nodded at the guard, who thankfully moved back to stand against the wall. “I do apologise, John. I did not…” The man looked almost human and disconcertingly like his brother as he pressed his fingers to his temples. “Do not worry. I have made arrangements, and the tragic but natural death of one Mr. Andrew Terrence shall not be blamed on you.”

John snorted. Surely no one would believe that the man’s broken neck had been _natural_.

The man continued, “I take it you wish to return to your regular cell, then?”

“Yes.”

“Very well.” He waved the guard back over and stood. “Then this conversation is over. I’m aware you may have more questions, and I promise to attempt to answer them at a later date, but now is not the time.” He looked at the guard. “You may unshackle him.” At the guard’s hesitation, Sherlock’s brother huffed. “Well?”

A moment later, John was utterly unsurprised as he felt the cuffs leave his wrists.

The guard reached around and John glared at the man’s hand as it was held out to help him, and struggled to his feet on his own. The elder Holmes held his own hand out for him once John had his feet under himself, and John glared at that too. He frowned up at the man.

“I would like to formally introduce myself, Dr. Watson. I am Mycroft Holmes, your friend Sherlock’s brother.” He gave John the same smarmy smile he had when John had first walked in, and his hand didn’t waver.

John shook it, and turned to leave. He paused, and turned back. “You’re bloody lucky, you know. Just because my hands were tied doesn’t mean I couldn’t have kicked you in the bollocks under the table.”

Inexplicably, the man smiled. “Yes, John, I am aware.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am well aware that this was rather a cop out in terms of repercussions for John, but this was also always the plan. All things considered, this fic is still rather in the beginning stages – not all the characters have been fully introduced yet, and Moriarty’s main plot has only just begun to show itself. The idea was to have John be his deliciously BAMF!self, get into some serious trouble, and then have the show’s built-in deus ex machina come in and save the day. Why? Because there’s no way in _hell_ Mycroft would have come back to talk to John unless something pretty big inspired him to do so. Why risk another black eye? It would clash _horribly_ with his umbrellas!
> 
> Also, I absolutely apologize for making Mycroft seem like an utter dick in his two scenes. I love Mycroft. I think he’s awesome (not least of which because he’s played by the almighty Godtiss), and I in no way think he’s such a prick as I had to write him in this. Rather (and there will be more on this later), he’s being the big brother that knows best, and absolutely cannot comprehend that his methods might not be the best ones. And keep in mind that Sherlock would sooner chew off his own arm than tell Mycroft that he was being raped and could big brother come save him please please please? Yeah. Not going to happen.
> 
> Random Note: It is really, really odd to write any portion of this fanfic while listening to Beethoven’s Symphony No. 6.


	8. Chapter 8

The shriek echoed off the grey walls, and the uniformed man that had come bearing the news flinched away.

“How could he possibly be _back_?! He killed someone! There were even witnesses!”

The man mumbled something, and a smaller form pressed into him. Despite the baton at his side, the prison officer felt a deep terror as the wild eyes stared into his.

“Speak _up_ , you overrated waste bin of human thought.”

“D-Don’t know, sir. Came from the top. No one really knows.”

The small man gave a hiss of a deadly snake and turned away. The officer relaxed slightly. “I see. So the good doctor has friends in high places, then.” Moriarty turned back with a smile, causing the other man to straighten into attention again. “Luckily for me, so do I.”

A sharp crack resounded, and the officer crumpled to the floor.

“He’s not dead,” another voice at the back of the room muttered.

“Of course not. He wouldn’t be any use to me if he were.” A hand wave, and feet trudged towards the collapsed officer. “Just a little reminder, is all.”

 

  
The only difference, as far as John could tell, was the number of steps needed to pace the circumference of the cell. The change in surroundings, the added furniture, all superfluous. Until Sherlock returned from the F Wing, John might as well have been back in seclusion for all the care he took for his old cell.

 _He was taken to F Wing for drugs. What does that mean? Did he overdose? Or did they catch him in possession?_ John paused beside Sherlock’s bed, staring down at it. _How could he have – Why?!_ He slammed his fist into the pillow. Unsatisfactory. He knew better than to punch the wall, but oh, how he wanted to. Maybe he’d punch one of Sherlock’s ridiculously perfect cheekbones when he came back.

John began to pace again. _What kind of drugs? Morphine? Heroin? Cocaine?_ Cocaine was most likely. His mind raced through years of medical training, running through norepinephrine releases and serotonin and dopamine blockages. Potassium deficiency. Catecholamine toxins overrunning his system. Tachycardia. John gagged as his mind shied away from the image of Sherlock’s brain, that unique brain, hemorrhaging from drug toxicity, blood spreading over and damaging those sensitive neurons, destroying brain tissue, causing that innate elegance to become nothing more than stumbling awkwardness, those all-seeing eyes to blur… He refused to imagine that genius mind comatose, dormant and unused.

For the first time in his life, John Watson wished he weren’t a doctor.

How long would it take for Sherlock to return? He _would_ , right? How long were prisoners kept in the drug wing? Why hadn’t he asked Sherlock when he’d had the chance? Would they keep him for long term care? This obviously wasn’t the first time he’d been there, but John had no way of knowing if Sherlock’s stay in the drug wing might become more permanent for continual drug abuse. Or would they just give him a shot of diazepam and let him go after a sufficient observation period?

Would he ever see Sherlock again? Hell, even if Sherlock was returned to C Wing, there was every possibility that the guards would move him to a different cell.

He just… he had no way of knowing.

John’s pacing slowed, and then stopped next to Sherlock’s bed again.

This waiting was going to kill him.

 

  
Water and soap splashed into the sink, suds swirling together. John stood, naked and uncaring of any possible passersby as he used a clean undershirt to give himself a rigorous sponge bath. When the guards had come by earlier in the day, he had told them in the politest terms but with a tone that brooked no argument, that he would not be using the showers that day.

John wiped his face, and then rubbed his scalp until it ached, before moving on to his neck and shoulders.

_Crimson blood smeared over an erect phallus. Pale thighs marred by livid bruises._

John Watson refused to leave this cell again until Sherlock had returned. He did not want to imagine what could happen if Sherlock arrived, and he wasn’t there.

Sherlock was beautiful, brilliant, and utterly impossible. He was much too good for any of the fuckers trapped in this warzone of a prison, and John would not allow any of them to take from Sherlock what they so little deserved ever again.

_Death had been too good for that fucking bastard._

 

  
“Bloody 'ell, Watson, aren’t you comin’ out?”

“No, thank you.” This guard had been the only person to even talk to him in days. While any other questions would have been met with short answers, John felt he could at least be polite to the man that had informed him of Sherlock’s situation in the first place.

“Still full from last night, yeah?”

“No, I did not eat yesterday either.”

The young man stared at him, agog. “Wot is this, then, mate? Ain’t ya 'ungry?”

“Some, but I’m not leaving this cell.”

It seemed to take a few minutes for the guard to process this. “Scared o’ the others? Yeah, I c’n see that. But I’d be in the shit if’n I brought you some nosh. But I’ll see wot I c’n do.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“Ch’, I’m not about ta let ya starve, Watson.”

 

  
John’s stomach was beginning to complain rather incessantly when he discovered a new form of entertainment to pass the time until Sherlock’s return. He braced himself against the bars of his cell, and waited.

Ten minutes, twenty minutes, and then an inmate, middle-aged, balding, and about twice John’s size, passed in front of his cell, keeping as far to the other side of the corridor without actually hugging the wall.

“Hey.”

The man jumped. Refusing to meet John’s eyes, he fled the scene as quickly as he could.

Really, snapping a man’s neck certainly brought a certain kind of notoriety in prison.

John hoped Sherlock would return soon. This really wouldn’t be entertaining for long.

 

  
“Oi, Watson!” The young guard gave a loud whistle through the bars, completely counteracting his whispering tone. “Watson!” The dim lights for the night hours made his ginger hair glow oddly.

“I’m right here. What is it?” John refrained from vocalising his thoughts, which were mainly “Did you expect to find me anywhere else?”

“I found a bloke that offered to bring you some nosh now 'n' ag’n.”

“Oh!” John blinked, rather taken aback. “Thanks.”

The friendly young man winked. “Don’t worry about it, mate. His shift starts in an hour, so jus’ 'ang tight, yeah?”

It was rather nice to see someone smile at him, John realised. As entertaining as it had been to see everyone run from the sight of him, he had begun to miss being treated like a human being.

Now if only Sherlock would just come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that this chapter is obscenely short, considering I haven't updated in what feels like a million years. Sadly, a combination of truly annoying circumstances has kept me busy and/or internet-less for quite a long period. I do hope to have the next chapter up relatively soon, to make up for the shortness of this one.
> 
> This was quite possibly one of the most difficult things I've had to write (another reason why it took so long), because really, very little happens in this chapter. I refused to just have Sherlock reappear as soon as John left solitary, because I'm a stickler for realism, but it also left me with very few options as to how this chapter was going to progress. I could have had John leaving for the cafeteria and working out in the gym, but I didn't think it likely, since John is on a mission, so to speak. He wouldn't just abandon his duties to go work out.


	9. Chapter 9

The arrangement had worked well so far. Ramon, the officer that the young guard had introduced him to, had managed to sneak energy bars and water to John at irregular intervals for the past three days. The bars had been stale and tasteless and done nothing more than keep John from starving, but that was fine. He was in no condition to appreciate fine food. Officer Ramon always came back fifteen minutes later to dispose of the garbage, and John was left in relative peace.

He spent most of it pacing.

Ramon wasn’t the type to engage in much conversation during his visits, and that was just fine with John. He only wished to speak to one person, and the only benefit to this interminable wait was that he now knew exactly what he wished to say.

When the cell door finally opened, John did not even turn. He stood at attention, facing the wall, and breathed deeply.

“Oh, John, you’re here,” Sherlock’s voice drawled. “I did wonder if Mycroft would manage to get off his corpulent backside to do any good.”

“Is there any more?” John asked, his own voice tight and controlled.

“John?” John might have rejoiced at the sudden confusion that garbled Sherlock’s voice, but he had more important things to worry about.

“The drugs. Cocaine, right? Is there any more?”

“Oh. How on earth did you know- Oh, of course, someone told you. Even the murderers left in seclusion hear gossip. Someone really ought to buy a dictionary for these people, so they can understand the meaning of the word.”

“Sherlock, answer the question.”

After a long pause, Sherlock responded, “I really cannot understand why you are so upset. I was never in any real danger. It is not as though I am some sort of wilting flower, John.”

John whirled on his heel, suddenly infuriated. He wanted to say so many things in reply. _Of course you were in danger. Do you even use that brain at all?_ Or even trying to explain to Sherlock what multiple overdoses could do to one’s body. His throat worked. “ _Good_ ,” he managed and slammed his fist into Sherlock’s cheekbone.

He watched as Sherlock fell back against the door, eyes wide with shock and holding his hand up to his face. Inhaling sharply, John tried to ignore the nausea he felt at the sight. “Listen.” His voice came out strangled and harsh. He cleared his throat. “Listen. I don’t know if you get this, but I care about you. I don’t even know why. But if I… If I kill a man, and the next thing I hear is that you’ve been wheeled off to the A&E or whatever the fuck they have in prison for shit like this, then I will be very-” He paused. “You just aren’t going to do that again. It’s not right that apparently I care more about your health than you do.”

Sherlock sneered and straightened away from the door. “Oh, really, John, how can you be so dim? I wasn’t trying to kill myself, or anything so boring. It was a calculated risk.” He stalked away, leaving John to stare blindly at the door. “I was well aware that even if Mycroft chose to assist you, it would likely take some time, mostly out of curiosity and spite. He’d have wanted to know why, and he would have also enjoyed the idea of my begging him for help of any kind. Therefore, after I phoned him, I collected the last of the cocaine I had been saving for emergencies, dosed it correctly, and intentionally overdosed myself.”

John could not stand to look at him, but his fists were beginning to shake. “You… you unbelievable bastard. Are you saying that you overdosed yourself so you wouldn’t have to keep asking your brother for help?”

“Don’t be an idiot, John,” Sherlock snapped. He threw himself onto his bed. “The overdose had absolutely nothing to do with Mycroft, except in that I knew there would be a delay.” There were loud shifting noises from behind John, as if Sherlock were trying to find a comfortable place, before finally settling. “But I knew that I would be at my most vulnerable in this cell alone. I simply needed to ensure that wouldn’t happen.”

It would be too much, John knew, if he turned around. Likely it would end in another bruised cheekbone. He simply continued to face the door. “I… see. So you felt that this was your only alternative? Drugs?”

“Hardly the only alternative, John, but certainly the least damaging.”

“Right,” John said. He finally turned away from the door and sat down on his bunk. “Right,” he said again. “Calculated risk. I see.”

“John?”

“No, listen to me, Sherlock. Listen _closely_.” He paused, but Sherlock seemed to be paying attention. “This is not going to happen again. I mean it. If there’s ever a reason to- I mean.” He stopped again. “I don’t plan on killing anyone else.”

“You didn’t plan on killing the first one.”

“Shut up. I don’t plan on killing anyone else. But if… if it happens. Or something. If _anything_ happens, I mean. And I’m not there to- You are not going to do that again. You will call your brother, and you will have him get you out of here.”

Sherlock huffed. “Oh, _honestly_ , John.”

“ _Shut up_. I don’t care about this bloody stupid power play. I don’t care if you hate your git of a brother more than anything. I don’t care. I’m not going to make you leave right now. But- But you chose a cocaine overdose over getting off your fucking pedestal and actually asking someone for help, and I’m going to make it clear. This isn’t going to happen again. If for any reason we’re separated again, you are going to call your brother and get him to get you the fuck out of here. Promise me.”

“John, that is the most ridiculous-”

“ _Shut the fuck up, Sherlock!_ ” John very nearly screeched, and exploded off the bed. “This is not up for fucking debate. This is not even going to be fucking questioned. You are going to promise me this, right now, or I am going to fucking call your brother and tell him to get you out of here, whether you like it or not!”

Sherlock stared at him, lips pressed tightly, and expression rebellious.

John deflated, sitting back on the bed, and resting his head in his hands. “Please, Sherlock. If I’m willing to kill a man for you, then the least you can do is say you’ll do this one thing for me. _Please._ ”

There was a long silence. Sherlock turned to stare at the wall. John stared down at his hands.

“How did you know?”

“What?” John’s head jerked and his left hand twitched.

“The drugs. How did you know it was cocaine? Did they tell you that also?”

“No. I… just figured. It’s the most common of the major drugs in Europe, you know. What’s easy to get out there would probably be easier to get in here too.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock replied. That was apparently the end of the conversation, and John, defeated, lied back on his bunk.

“John?”

He didn’t want to answer. He’d had enough of being led around by his nose and banging his head up against the wall, but still, as if compelled, he said, “What is it, Sherlock?”

“I promise.”

John’s shoulders relaxed and his face softened. He smiled up at the ceiling. “Thank you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is also disgustingly short ~~because I’m an evil bitch~~ , but I really just wanted to get this out as soon as possible. I feel like shit for leaving John and Sherlock separated for so long, and needed to get this truly intense scene out of the way so the plot could progress.
> 
> That said, this is probably my favorite scene I’ve ever written. It has also led me to deeply respect any and all writers that can successfully translate “this room is so thick you could spread it on toast” tension without trying to attract too much attention to it (because my least favorite kind of writing is the kind that tells and doesn’t show), because I found this damn near impossible. Did my best, though.
> 
> I also didn’t send this chapter to my darling kdelioncourt to be Brit-picked, because again, I wanted to put it up as soon as possible. (I am so sorry, my readers! I really do love you! I mean it!) Therefore, any and all errors are totally mine, and if anyone sees anything that should be fixed, just let me know, and I’ll take care of it.


End file.
